


Wibble Wobble Wibble Wobble To and Fro

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: Babies of a Sort, F/M, Fatherhood - of a Sort, Filled with Mushy Feels, Fluff - as in Literal Fluff, Good Feelings Fic, Intense Adorability High
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7904422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn pops by the station with his "kids" in tow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wibble Wobble Wibble Wobble To and Fro

He heard the sounds of giggles first. Light, at the start, but growing as whatever “it” was neared the bullpen. No question as to the “who” it was only a matter of the “what” – destroying any hope that he wouldn't be diving into that bottle of Advil.

 

Bits of conversation made it to his corner of the station – strengthening his tension and curling his fists around the lip of his desk.

 

“ _Oh, they're just adorable-”_

 

“ _-so tiny-”_

 

“ _-ere's the mother-?”_

 

“ _-just want to cuddle them-”_

 

Good God, no...

 

“Spencer!”

 

Through the crowd gathered at the opposite end of the room, a scrub brush of brown hair poked up – the owner of that haphazard mess easily pushing through the jam of officers who – upon hearing the bellow of their Head Detective – quickly got back to work.

 

Spencer, with Guster right at his side, dandied his way across the floor. Well he didn't _seem_ to be holding an infant...

 

“What's your game, Spencer?”

 

At that moment, O'Hara returned from the file room, her eyes scanning towards the floor. Both hands clapped over her mouth and a horrific and unacceptable little girl squeal spurted between her fingers. Grinning, Spencer turned...

 

Ducks. Baby ducks. Fluffy, yellow, tiny baby ducks were clustered around his Chucks. Lassiter stood and pointed at the mess of fluff.

 

“What in the name of Gene Autry's iconic white hat are those things doing in my station?”

 

Immediately the duckling began peeping. Loudly. Spencer knelt down and gathered them around his legs. “It's okay, babies. Mean old Lassie's bark as nowhere as bad as his flatulence...”

 

Before he could comment on _that_ , Lassiter's sensible partner scurried to Spencer's side and knelt as well. “Oh my gosh, they are so, so precious! Do you have names for them yet?”

 

Names?? “Names!?”

 

Spencer grinned. “Of course I do, my Golden Oreo. That big guy you're holding is Rumpus Ignid Sullivan O'Chester the Fifth. The little black one is,”

 

“Sidney Poitier. Junior.” Guster interrupted. Spencer looked up, smirking, as the two of them cracked knuckles.

 

“And I call this little guy, Bump.” Spencer lifted what was easily the runt of the litter.

 

Before the idiot could identify the other four identical puff balls, Lassiter crossed his arms and glowered. “I don't care who, what, or why – get them out of here before they start crapping on everything!”

 

Spencer clucked at his brood and the puffy poopers cheeped wildly in response – clambering over one another to get close to his face. Horrified, Lassiter watched as Spencer fished something from his pocket, crammed it in his mouth and chewed a second before dropping his jaw. Baby ducks pounced and Lassiter curled up his lip in thick disgust.

 

“Oh. My. God.”

 

Snack time over, Spencer stood – catching Lassiter's rumple.

 

“Pop Tarts. I know – they aren't the most responsible choice, but gosh, I just can't refuse those little faces.”

 

Lassiter could feel the heat flooding from hairline to toes as he pointed towards one little fluff ball currently nesting on his black Oxford. “Get. Them. Out.” He moved his pointing to Spencer's nose. “Now.”

 

His intimidation was at maximum threat. So, of course, Spencer grinned. “Okay! You head Big Bad Lassifrass; let's go, kids!” Immediately tumbling and bumbling, the living puffs slapped their itty bitty webs against the tile – slipping and flapping minute wings as they scurried after their guardian.

 

Lassiter watched them go – one hand crabbed over his face. Another second later he glared around himself at the officers still staring after the moving circus. O'Hara, worst of all, had the look of impending motherhood gathering in her eyes.

 

“For the sake of all that is holy, O'Hara, do not propagate with that idiot until I'm dead, burned for three days in a state sanctioned crematorium, and my ashes have been scattered across the North West end of Spooner Lake.”

 

O'Hara quirked her lips but at least she had the decency to return to her desk. The rest of the class followed as well – returning the station to a state that Lassiter found most pleasing. Busy, productive, and Spencer free.


End file.
